


The Soul Will Speak

by Chiaroscuro



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Movie(s), Slow Burn, Smitten Original Percival Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-12-19 15:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11900439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiaroscuro/pseuds/Chiaroscuro
Summary: "Quiet the mind, and the soul will speak." -Ma Jaya Sati BhagavatiStill recovering from his captivity and torture at the hands of Gellert Grindelwald, the real Percival Graves struggles to regain his identity. When Credence Barebone stumbles across his path, it takes little convincing for Graves to offer sanctuary to the boy he had come to care for before the events at City Hall Subway Station. It might take slightly more convincing for him to let Credence make his own choices when it comes to love, though.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will contain no GrindelGraves. It may, however, contain mentions of torture, identity crises, PTSD symptoms, and various mental sundries related to trauma. I have no intention of making it graphic but if you're sensitive, please take this as your warning. This is first and foremost a slow burn romance between two characters who lost a lot but have everything to gain. The Credence and Percival in this fic are damaged, loving, consenting adults. Rating and tags may change if needed.
> 
> Shout-out to my bestie and beta, Chaos_Squirrel. You the real MVP.

Credence Barebone was a wisp of ash floating on the breeze, curling into smoke and dissolving. Or he was something poetic anyway. Ma said poetry was sin, and that seemed about right for what he was now. But whatever else he was, Credence was corporeal once more.

 

He didn’t know why he was drawn to that building. He hadn’t meant to go there. Hadn’t meant to go anywhere in particular, actually. Once he’d come back into his body--and stolen some clothes--he had planned to just walk. Walk and keep walking until he couldn’t walk anymore, or until he didn’t need to. Whichever came first.

 

Instead, he found himself standing on wide slate steps beneath a mossy engraving that read  LUNATIC ASYLUM , facing the monolithic brass doors, not quite able to push the tarnished triple-bar handle. The crumbling stone building spread its arms wide, creeping across acres of dead landscape, projecting brick towers to the overcast sky as if challenging the very universe. Unwelcoming at best, the story on the street was that it was haunted. Anyone who dared come too close would be gripped with overwhelming fear from ghosts of the insane and have to turn away. 

 

Credence didn’t believe in ghosts. Ma said believing in souls trapped on earth was a sin. He didn’t know whether that was true, but he knew if he was condemned to wander the earth after death, the last place he would stay was his prison. Haunted or not, the old asylum was intriguing. When he turned his head just so, the moss disappeared and the glass repaired itself. The sandstone sign rewrote its lettering and the doors’ brass gleamed in proud polish.

 

“Healing Angels of the Bless’d Occult,” the building’s engraving proclaimed. He didn’t know what that meant but he thought it might be some sort of hospital. 

 

As if from nowhere, a man in rumpled suit appeared behind Credence. He ran a hand roughly through his tousled sandy hair as he raced up the steps two at a time, accidentally shoulder-checking Credence in his rush. 

 

“Sorry, so sorry!” he huffed, spinning to face the confused young man while still hopping backward toward the doors. With a sloppy pirouette twirl he faced the building again, flinging open the doors with slightly more force than necessary and barrelling inside.

 

Credence took a chance and hastened after the harried man, slipping in silently as the heavy doors slammed shut. He needn’t have bothered being quiet, though. Inside the cavernous entrance hall was alive with activity--or possibly just alive. Credence couldn’t be sure. Pressing himself against the wall by the entrance, he gaped openly at the scene. 

 

An enormous carved wooden desk curved in a circle around the rotunda, broken up by massive corinthian columns that didn’t appear to be supporting anything. The glass ceiling soared several stories above it, cresting in a dome that showered stardust down, dissolving before it landed. A team of women-- _ witches,  _ his mind supplied--staffed the desk, chatting with visitors and sending folded paper airplanes flying through the air on a set course, with casual wrist flicks. Hallways wider than train cars spoked out from the rotunda in all directions, each clad halfway up with clean tile in different colors, leading to ornate plaster cornices along the ceiling. Airplane-folded memos, directed by the desk witches, soared overhead down every hallway, neatly turning corners and avoiding traffic. Oddly-dressed people were everywhere, in fashions that even Credence knew were outdated, and some in floor-length robes of cardinal red and canary yellow. The noise alone was disarming.

 

Above the raucous, one voice pulled free.

 

“--Graves! Please. He’ll have my head. You must let me see him!” It was the sandy-brunette man from the door. 

 

Credence sidled over, nearly invisible from years of attempting to blend in with the woodwork.

 

The woman at the desk was shaking her head as she answered. “I’m sorry,” she said, almost sounding like she meant it. “No visitors besides family unless pre-approved by the healer in charge.”

 

Tugging anxiously at his collar, the brunette man glanced back and forth across the hallways as if gauging his chances of randomly stumbling across his target if he ran fast enough.

 

“Please don’t make me call security,” the desk woman intoned, unimpressed.

 

Beads of sweat dripped down the man’s forehead. “No, I--. No, of course not,” he replied, ashamed. Gripping the bottoms of his sleeves in wet palms, he headed dejectedly for the door.

 

Credence, hovering behind a column, contemplated his options. Graves. Could it be  _ his _ Mr. Graves? The odds of that coincidence were--well, he didn’t know. But it didn’t seem too likely. But if it  _ was _ his Mr. Graves, he had to see him. His experience with the false Mr. Graves had been devastating, but he met the first Mr. Graves when the other him, Grindelwald, was still wreaking havoc in Europe. Credence wasn’t stupid, whatever he pretended. He kept up with the times, sneaking papers from waste bins and scanning headlines. The man who had come to him after the woman who ate hot dogs was taken away, had been kind. It wasn’t overt, but the only thing that Credence experienced overtly was punishment, so he found he didn’t mind.

 

His legs took him to the woman behind the desk before his brain had quite caught up to the idea.

 

“Excuse me,” he said, looking up at her from behind dark lashes. “I’m looking for a Mr. Graves?”

 

The woman flicked her wand and a set of filing cards on metal rings flipped over each other rapidly, stopping suddenly midway through the stack. 

 

“Percival?” the woman asked. The tips of Credence’s ears flushed. He didn’t know Mr. Graves’ first name.

 

“Yes,” he replied quickly, hoping she hadn’t noticed.

 

“Are you family?” she inquired, not unkindly.

 

Credence answered with the first thing that came to mind. 

 

“I’m his husband,” he blurted out.  _ Saints alive _ . What was he thinking? He could have been a cousin, distant step-nephew,  _ son _ even. Husband. He could feel a flush rising up his neck under his collar. He prayed it wasn’t too noticeable. 

 

The desk woman’s face softened. “Oh, sweetie, of course. Fred here’ll take you right to him.” 

 

She gestured widely with a wand and a pigeon alighted from the top of the column Credence had been standing under. The pigeon--Fred--tilted its head to consider Credence more carefully from its (his?) side-facing eye. 

 

“Freddy, this gentleman needs to get to room 437 in the Curse Ward,” she told the bird. “Be quick.”

 

Fred cooed mournfully, cocking his head side to side.

 

The woman flipped a small disk the size of a chess piece to Credence. It was grainy and flecked through with sunflower seeds. 

 

The woman winked at Credence. “Pay him off with this when you get there and he won’t give you no trouble. Go on!” she added, shooing the bird. Fred flapped his wings and lifted somewhat clumsily into the air. Without much telegraphing, he headed down a hallway. Credence followed, tripping slightly in his poorly fitting, ill-gotten shoes.

 

About the ninth corner turned, Credence grew exceedingly glad for Fred’s guidance. He was sure they were going in circles--it only made sense. There were only four directions, weren’t there? He managed to catch the ornate gate of an elevator right before it closed.

 

While the elevator rose--smoothly and with no cables?--Credence took a moment to catch his breath. Fred sat on a bar along the back of the car, preening his feathers. Though there was no doorman and Credence hadn't seen anyone adjust the lever, the elevator stopped on a floor and the grate folded back.

 

Fred took off again, down another labyrinthine hallway. Credence slid to a graceless stop when the pigeon turned suddenly into a room. He peered nervously through the doorway. 

 

Flapping gray feathers overtook his view and he shrieked unmanfully. Maintaining eye contact, the bird's face inches from his own, Credence dug frantically in his pocket for the seed disk. Trembling, he held it out to the side, within Fred’s line of sight. 

 

The pigeon bobbed his head, snatched the disk in its beak and flew off without a glance backward. 

 

Credence steeled himself. This could be any Graves. For all he knew it was a common surname among witches. He would look, see the strange Graves, and be back on his journey to nowhere in particular. 

 

Back hunched and head down, he treaded slowly through the doorway. His worn leather soles squeaked on the marble tiles and he drew in a harsh breath as his eyes adjusted to the dim room. 

 

A cornucopia of bubbling potions vials were arrayed on a mesh shelf hung over a narrow, turned-iron bed. Tubes connected the vials, drawing jewel colored liquids from one glass to another. Several tubes dripped slowly into a decanter on a bedside table. And lying on the bed, bruised and sallow but alive and breathing, was Percival Graves. 


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is proving very enjoyable to write. My beta said I should keep my writing a few steps ahead of my posting but where's the fun in that? 
> 
> Warning for mentions of abuse/trauma, and its physical and emotional aftermath.

Credence watched the rise and fall of his Mr. Graves’ chest, feeling his own heart slow to match pace. He was alive.

 

Warmth welled up inside Credence’s chest, curling tendrils of sweet honey around his heart. He should turn around and leave; he knew he should. Mr. Graves had cared for him before...everything. But he hadn't known Credence was an obscurial. 

 

He might not have cared about him if he had known.

 

Credence turned his body to leave but his feet refused to follow. They stayed firmly planted like cinder blocks, keeping Credence there with his Mr. Graves.

 

He watched the man’s chest rise and fall, shallow and fitful. Even in sleep his brow was furrowed, anxiety plain in the creases around his eyes and mouth. Small lacerations littered his ashen skin, scattered around a large, half-healed gash that ran from his right temple to his nose. His skin was translucent, pale, almost as if his body had already died and forgotten to take his spirit with him. Once, when he was younger, Credence had seen an orphan boy who drowned in the Hudson. The water filled in the area under his skin where it detached from muscle and framed his face gently in a halo of soft hair. There, in death, the child almost looked more alive than ever. Only the mossy pallor belied his demise. That was how Graves looked: a body, trapping a human soul that longed for escape. He was a shadow of his former self. He was still stunning. Credence’s heart skipped a beat. 

 

Unbidden, his feet lead him to the bedside. He wrapped his arms around his chest, protecting someone. Himself, perhaps. Or perhaps protecting Mr. Graves. Credence was dangerous and Mr. Graves had been through so much already. For several minutes he just watched. His stomach twisted itself, reminding him that he shouldn’t be there. For some reason, though, just being with Mr. Graves again lifted a weight from Credence that he hadn’t realized he carried. The man exuded an aura of safety. 

 

Hesitantly, one muscle at a time, Credence reached out toward Mr. Graves. His fingers hovered in midair for an eternity, trembling, until the very tips brushed Mr. Graves’ cheek. 

 

Graves jolted at the touch, a full body spasm like an electric shock. His eyes flew open and his chest heaved as he gasped for more oxygen than the air could provide. Startled and more than a bit ashamed, Credence leapt backward, tripping on his overlarge shoes. He caught himself and looked back toward the bed guiltily, locking eyes with Mr. Graves. 

 

“Cr’ dns?” Mr. Graves choked out.

 

Credence huffed an uncomfortable nervous laugh. Suddenly he wasn't at all sure why he was there.

 

“Yes. Yeah, it’s me. You remember,” he stammered.

 

He didn't catch what Mr. Graves said next but it sounded suspiciously like  _ difficult to forget _ .

 

Graves scanned the room, blinking hard to clear sleep-fogged vision. The infestation of flower arrangements on the desk across the room had spread, encompassing a visitor’s chair and encroaching onto the floor. The sentiments printed on small vellum cards tucked in the cheerful blossoms would be much more poignant if any of the well-wishers had  _ noticed he was gone _ .

 

Cartoon animals and children beamed at him from cards lined up along the window sill. Tiny paper balloons bobbed at the end of their inked strings while painted kittens chased watercolor butterflies. Briefly he considered asking Credence to close the curtains. Credence, who was at his bedside, looking perhaps worse than even he did.

 

“Why are you here?” he rasped.

 

Credence startled, obviously not expecting to be spoken to. 

 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I should...I’ll leave,” he said quickly.

 

“I didn’t ask you to leave; I asked what you are doing here,” Graves chided.

 

Credence hesitated, unsure what answer Mr. Graves was looking for. 

 

“I heard you were alive. I wanted to see for myself,” Credence said. “ _ See if Grindelwald left the same scars on you as he did on me _ ,” he didn’t say. “ _ See if it’s possible to go on living _ .”

 

A curl of Graves’ upper lip accented the displeasure in his voice. “I suppose alive is the correct term. I’ll be more inclined to agree with it when they release me from this potion-filled prison,” he said, then added under his breath, “Freed from one cell just to be locked in another.”

 

“Why are they keeping you?” he allowed himself to ask. Graves--the real one--had never punished him for curiosity. Only the evil version had ever raised a hand to him. It was a small test, but it carried great weight.

 

Graves lifted his arm from the bed and Credence flinched involuntarily. Graves glanced at him, expression unreadable, but continued his movement, lowering the collar of his hospital robes down his shoulder. Bones jutted against his skin as though trying to escape their flesh confinement. Dark bruising spread across the surface like ink drops in water. Blue blended into purple, haloing angry black splotches. His body was a map of damage.

 

Credence swallowed hard against rising nausea. “Does it hurt?” he questioned softly.

 

“Yes,” Graves answered simply.

 

And Credence knew with a certainty he hadn’t been able, or perhaps willing, to reach before. This was the real Percival Graves. This was the man who had never been anything but honest with him. This man wanted to help, he had said, but would not promise what might happen in the future. Uncertainty was the most beautiful feeling Credence could imagine. Hunger was certain, punishment absolute, but  _ maybe _ . Maybe was a whisper of hope. Maybe things could change. 

 

Grindelwald made promises. Honor and freedom. He was so certain about everything, never wavering or accepting less than his ideals. Credence should have known it wasn’t real. He should have seen through it, known that everything was wrong. But like the weak, stupid boy Ma had always seen in him, he remained willfully blind. 

 

The damage, though--how long had he been locked away? From what Credence could gather listening outside the Woolworth building as a wisp of smoke and as a just-as-unnoticable human, Grindelwald hadn’t been in America for long. Mr. Graves looked like a man starved and beaten for a year.

 

“How long--?” Credence ventured. Mr. Graves waited patiently for a moment but Credence couldn’t find a polite way to continue. Thankfully, Mr. Graves guessed correctly what he was asking.

 

“Three hundred six hours,” Graves said, calm tone belying the shiver that visibly ran through his body. “The Auror team found me in just under two weeks.”

 

Credence blanched and for a moment Graves feared the boy might vomit. He was choking on a question but couldn’t force the words through his clenched throat. Finally, Graves put the pieces together. 

 

“Oh, my dear boy,” Graves consoled. It might have sounded patronizing coming from anyone else, but laced with so much genuine empathy, to Credence it might as well have been a full-body hug with words. “He only wore my face for two days. Although I wish you hadn’t suffered the misfortune of meeting him at all, please rest assured that the trust you placed in me was, in fact, with me.”

 

Warm brown eyes searched Credence’s face for a sign of acknowledgement. Finally, the younger man’s ink-black eyes met his own for a brief flash. Satisfied, Graves leaned back into the pillows, grunting softly and shifting in discomfort as even the soft cotton grated against his skin.

 

Shifting weight from foot to foot, Credence picked at a piece of skin by his nail, wanting to help somehow but afraid anything he could do would be little more than a hindrance.

 

“Why can’t they just--,” Credence asked, holding one palm out flat and running the other above it slowly, miming his own healing.

 

“Curses may leave physical marks, but the healing is...rather more complicated,” Graves replied with a grimace. “It takes far less time for a curse to do extensive physical damage, but it is much more difficult to heal.”

 

“Oh.” Credence looked down at his feet, unsure what to say. Words seemed small comfort in light of what Graves had experienced, although Credence himself found even small kindness to be the most gratifying experience of his short life.

 

“It’s all right,” Graves assured him. “I’ll recover. I always do.”

 

Credence looked up up to meet his eyes. Eyebrows pinched and mouth corners pulled back slightly, Graves did not look pleased at first glance, but after a moment Credence realized the expression might have been the ghost of a smile. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes gave it away. Credence smiled back.

 

Eye contact wasn’t one of Credence’s strengths, but Mr. Graves’ eyes were enchanting: neutral brown, the color of leaves right before winter or wood polished smooth by years of touch. Low luster, rather than looking dull, gave them an almost tangible softness, like they might be made of pure velvet. He always smiled at Credence in his eyes, even when it didn’t reach the rest of his face. Credence suspected the other muscles were out of practice.

 

Realizing he was staring, Credence flushed, blood running hot up the side of his neck. He grasped internally for a change of subject. It wasn’t difficult.

 

In spite of the older man’s casual acceptance of his unexpected presence in the hospital, one question still weighed heavily on Credence’s mind.

 

“Why didn’t you ask me to leave?”

 

Graves raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Being confined to a bed has been rather unstimulating and I find your company tolerable. You’re an interesting man, Credence.”

 

Credence frowned down at his folded hands and shook his head negative, feeling his neck burn angry red beneath his collar.

 

Graves sighed. “Modesty doesn’t become you. We both know you’re capable of far more than that for which you were groomed.” He shifted his shoulders against the pillow and let his eyes fall closed.

 

“Stay or don’t,” he murmured. “Whichever you desire. I don't know what excitement visiting me could hold, but I think you’ve had enough choices made for you.”

 

 


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence makes a new friend and Queenie is the gift that wizardkind doesn't deserve. 
> 
> Also, my preferred flavor of Graves is salty.
> 
> (Previous chapter warnings apply.)

The sharp staccato of heeled shoes against the marble floor startled Credence from the fitful sleep he had fallen into, still seated in the chair but with his upper half draped across the bed. Jerking his head up, he blinked hard against the fuzz in his vision and licked his lips with a grimace. His right cheek sported the waffle print of the hospital blanket while a trail of dried saliva ran down the left.

 

The canary-robed mediwitch smiled kindly at Credence as she drained a potion bottle into the drip line. 

 

“He should be able to stay awake longer now,” she said softly. “Healer Trevisan is weaning him off of the stasis potion.”

 

Credence nodded blearily, unaccustomed to being addressed directly but not at all put off. He was also blindingly aware of where his arm was draped rather low over Mr. Graves’ abdomen. Panic twisted his stomach but he forced himself not to react. Husbands are allowed to touch each other. Flashing his teeth in a rough semblance of a return smile, Credence croaked out a thanks.

 

“Don’t you worry, sweetie,” she said. “Your man’s a fighter.” Then she left, clicking heels fading down the hallway, leaving Credence furiously fighting the heat rising to his cheeks and thanking every available deity that Mr. Graves was still asleep.

 

Graves stirred as Credence shifted his weight back into the chair, turning his head toward Credence and blinking blearily. He reached a hand out, brushing the back of his fingers against the younger man’s cheek. Credence closed his eyes, unconsciously following the hand. If he concentrated, he could still feel the touch of skin against his own.

 

“Still here?” Graves managed through dry, chapped lips.

 

Credence yanked his arms back and ducked his head. “Yes, sir,” he admitted.

 

Graves’ dark eyes, struggling a bit to focus but still lucid, evaluated the face before him. Dull skin seemed to stretch directly over bone, deathly pallor broken up by bruised purpling along the delicate bone under his eyes.

 

“Sh’d go home,” Graves murmured. “Need sleep. Y’ look exhausted.”

 

Credence felt his heart squeeze its way into his throat.  _ Home. _

 

He wasn’t sure he’d ever had one. Certainly not now, with Ma… and Modesty…

 

_ Modesty.  _ A sob tried to escape but Credence clamped his mouth shut firmly on top of it. He hoped it would pass as a hiccup. 

 

“Yes, sir,” he lied. He didn’t know how much Mr. Graves was told before the healers began administering the potions cocktail that clouded his mind, but if he needed to know what MACUSA left out, Credence would fill him in. Eventually.

 

Graves politely ignored Credence, allowing him a moment to pull himself together, for which Credence was embarrassingly grateful. 

 

Graves gestured toward a glass of ice chips on a cabinet nearby with a cupped hand, as though expecting it to obey an unspoken command. And perhaps he did expect that, given the derisive glare the disobedient glass received when it stubbornly remained immobile. 

 

Credence leapt from his chair to retrieve the glass, eager to finally be helpful. He returned to Graves’ side, wiping condensation on his pants and fumbling to separate a few chips with shaking fingers. He attempted to transfer the dripping rocks to Mr. Graves’ hands, but Graves merely parted his lips.

 

Credence swallowed hard. He couldn’t possibly…

 

Except he could, apparently, as he watched his hand move toward Mr. Graves’ waiting mouth. He meant to feed the ice as quickly as possible, slip it past Graves’ lips and pull away. His traitorous hand had other ideas. The moment his fingers brushed the warm skin, the part of him that wanted to keep his distance went immediately silent, while the part of him that yearned for closeness purred happily in his chest. 

 

While Credence was still trying to chastise himself into pulling away, something warm and soft snaked its way around his fingertips, caressing the pads so hot and wet, and  _ oh _ . 

 

A shuddering breath fell out of Credence’s mouth. The warm kiss released his fingers and he immediately reached back into the glass, desperate for a reason to touch again. This time, he ran the ice chip over Graves’ lips, ever so slowly, tracing the shape of his mouth and filling in the cracks in the skin with sweet, cold dew. 

 

Graves brought his tongue out, first tasting the water, then sampling Credence’s fingers. His pupils were blown, irises just a slender brown ring around inky blackness. He couldn’t help a hum of pleasure at the tang of salt on Credence’s skin.

 

His own sound drew Graves out of the haze of  _ want _ that he had indulged for far too long. Drawing back immediately, he offered a smile so the boy would know he had done nothing wrong. 

 

“Thank you, Credence,” he offered genuinely. “It seems my strengths are not returning at the rate I wish them to.”

 

Credence’s high cheekbones were flushed wine red and his breathing was still sharp and quick. He looked like he had been running a marathon, or had been recently ravished. 

 

_ Stop that. _

 

Blessedly, a crackle from the fireplace heralded an incoming firecall, and the perfect interruption.

 

“Why don’t you go investigate the cafeteria?” Graves suggested casually, voice slightly too high. “Use my name and you should be allowed anything you desire.”

 

Credence’s eyebrows rose. Wincing internally, Graves encouraged him out the door with a shooing motion.

 

“Go on, then,” he said. “I’m certain it’s been far too long since you had a decent meal.”

 

Credence obeyed, slightly confused but amiable. Graves resolutely did not watch him leave.

 

Only after the sound of footsteps faded completely did Graves acknowledge the call.

 

“I apologize for the intrusion, Director Graves, but Fletchley tried to see you this morning and was turned away,” Abernathy’s face in the fireplace sniffled. “Was that--”

 

“Was there a purpose for this call, or do you just enjoy irritating me?” Graves interrupted.

 

Abernathy’s eyes peered suspiciously toward the door after Credence, but didn’t prod further.

 

“It’s the Carnegie case. We were wrapping things up while--when you were indisposed. If you recall. There are things that cannot be processed without your written approval,” Abernathy lectured. “We can send by owl, I suppose, but it would be so much more  _ efficient _ if you would permit someone to hand-deliver the files.”

 

Graves looked at the ceiling, intently studying the veined cracks in the plaster. “Should give it to Grindelwald,” he voiced casually. “No one would notice him stopping by.”

 

“I...We--Excuse me?” Abernathy sputtered. 

 

“Nothing; never mind,” Graves sighed. “Just owl it over, whatever you need. Consider that the arrangement until further notice.”

 

Abernathy puffed his chest, preparing a lecture, but something made him reconsider and instead he just nodded. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

 

The firecall ended with a  _ snap _ , leaving Graves alone again with his thoughts.

 

__________

 

The cafeteria was more of a cafe than a lunchroom, filled with small round tables and lined in velvet sofas with silk tassels. Coffered walnut panelling ran nearly to the ceiling, removing any sterility left from its location at the center of a hospital.

 

Credence hesitated in the wide doorway, carefully seeking a spot both secluded and near an exit. A stray lock of dark hair fell across his forehead and he tugged on it nervously, spinning the curl between forefinger and thumb. In just a month it had grown several inches, now long enough to tuck behind his ears. Sometimes it seemed the more he vainly enjoyed his tresses, which lengthened into soft curls, the more quickly it grew.

 

Chewing on his bottom lip, Credence started for a table behind a column, but was stopped by a blonde woman calling his name and waving widely.

 

He looked around to see who she might be talking to, then pointed to his chest and mouthed, “Me?”

 

The woman nodded and gestured him over. With some trepidation he obeyed, pulling out a bent wood chair and perching toward the edge, hands folded neatly in his lap. 

 

He met her eyes briefly, once or twice, before returning his gaze to the table. The smiling woman didn’t seem bothered.

 

“I am so glad to see you, and all in one piece!” she gushed. “I thought maybe, well we all did--but then I heard rumors. Teenie doesn’t tell me everything, of course. And no one could find you. We couldn’t look too hard, not wanting to set the wrong people on your trail. But ain’t it funny, running into you here? How’re you doing, honey?”

 

“I’m. Uh, fine. Thank you. Ma’am” Credence stammered. “It’s just--have we met?”

 

He didn’t want to be rude; the woman was so friendly, but he was certain he would remember a smile like that. It was like she contained so much joy inside that she had to open her mouth in a grin or she would burst trying to keep it bottled up.

 

“Oh!” Her blue eyes widened. “No, I don’t guess we have, officially. I’m Queenie. Teenie’s my sister. Tina Goldstein? She was an auror, you see. You met her before, back with your mother. I’m really sorry to hear about what happened, honey.”

 

Credence shook his head. “No, it’s. I’m fine.” He didn’t want to think about any of it. Not now.

 

He remembered Tina. She was one of the first people who ever noticed him. “Tina is your sister?”

 

“Yes, my one and only,” Queenie beamed, more proud of her family than Credence could imagine anyone being. “Aw, don’t feel bad, honey. The family you pick can be just as great as the one you start out with.

 

“Oh, where are my manners? You look like you ain’t eaten in days. Did you order?”

 

Credence admitted he hadn’t, and Queenie guided him to the ticket window and through selecting decent food, much of which he had never heard of. When it got to payment, Credence panicked. He supposed if his lie was going to come out, it might as well be now. At least he might get a decent meal before ending up back on the streets. 

 

With a sidelong glance at his new friend, Credence instructed the cashier to bill it to room 437. The witch looked down her nose at him, eyes comically magnified by her glasses.

 

“You a friend of Graves’?” she asked suspiciously. 

 

Heart pounding, Credence looked her dead in the eye and said, “I’m his husband,” without missing a beat. Queenie cocked her head but didn’t say anything.

 

“Huh,” the cashier replied. “Heard you were here. Thought you’d be older. All right, you’re good to go. We’ll call your number shortly.”

 

Back at their table, Credence fidgeted with his glass of iced tea. 

 

“How does she know who Mr. Graves is?” he pondered.

 

“He sends everything from the kitchen back and tells ‘em how to make it correctly. When did you and Graves get married?”

 

Credence scrunched up his face. “We, uh. They weren’t allowing anyone to see him except family, so, I, um. I told them we were married? He doesn’t know.”

 

Queenie burst out laughing, high and loud and terribly contagious. “Oh, honey, you are too much. Your secret’s safe with me. Just promise you’ll let me watch when you tell him.”

 

Credence paled. Hopefully that talk could wait a few more days. 

 

The food delivered itself to the table (because of course it did) and Credence wasted no time demolishing it.

 

“Wait,” he said around a mouthful of scalloped potatoes. “How did you know about the cashier knowing Mr. Graves?”

 

“She was thinkin’ it,” Queenie replied.

 

“You can read minds?”

 

Queenie hummed and tilted her hand from side to side. “I read thoughts. Minds take a bit more effort, an’ it just doesn’t feel right, diggin’ in people’s personal areas. You know?”

 

Credence nodded agreeably, although he didn’t actually know at all. Reading thoughts sounded kind of awful. He knew when someone hated him; he didn’t need to know exactly how they were thinking it. 

 

“Now you stop that,” Queenie admonished. “You are just wonderful. I could see right away why Teenie liked you.”

 

Credence dropped his fork, suddenly realizing that the sister in question was absent.

 

“She’s not here is she?” he worried. “Did something happen to her?”

 

“Oh, no, she’s fine,” Queenie reassured him. “She’s here, but just visiting. Some of the other aurors were hurt pretty bad at the subway station so she spends Sundays with them. I come along in case she needs company.” Her voice dropped, tinged with melancholy. “It can be rough, seein’ so many people you care about laid up like that. Some of ‘em won’t get better.”

 

Credence shivered, hands clenched tightly into fists, blunt nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms.

 

Queenie gasped, realizing what he inferred. “Oh, sweetheart, it wasn’t you! It’s not your fault. It was all Grindelwald. Nobody blames you.” That last part might not have been strictly true, but Queenie saw no reason for hashing out trivialities. 

 

She laid her hand, palm down, near him on the table in support. Tentatively, he reached out and meshed their fingers. She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles soothingly. 

 

“You wanna go back to your room?” she offered softly.

 

Credence nodded, brushing away tears with the corner of his free hand.

 

Queenie used her unoccupied hand to wave her wand and wrap a few cookies in a napkin, tying itself into a neat square knot.

 

“For later,” she explained, slipping the package into his large jacket pocket.

 

With the weight of the cookies in his pocket and Queenie’s hand still linked with his, Credence walked down the halls for the first time feeling more like a person than a wisp of smoke.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys...I am blown away by the support I have received in this. Thank you all so much for your comments, kudos, or just reading. I am having so much fun writing these boys and I even have a general storyline now ^.^
> 
> Come cry about fictional characters with me on tumblr @ http://cleverlittlecookie.tumblr.com/


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence finds a new home, and Graves takes pining to a whole new level.
> 
> Warning for short description of Credence's scars.

If not for Graves sitting on the same iron bed as before, Credence would have been sure he'd entered the wrong room. In a few short hours, Graves became the sun around which chaos orbited. Maps were fastened to the walls, task lamps plugged in at every outlet, and a solid table bridged over the bed was arrayed with stacks of files and folders. Ghostly models of sections of the city floated near the ceiling, glowing gold and rotating on an invisible axis. Unfamiliar brass instruments weighted piles of scrolls. What immediately drew his eye, though, was the tufted leather club chair settled by the bedside where his wooden visitor’s chair had been previously. ( _ Chesterfield _ , Graves informed him when he caught him staring.)

 

Credence raised his eyebrows. 

 

“I might be a captive but I'm not an invalid,” Graves defended himself, perched primary atop the bedclothes. “If they won't let me go home they'll have to make some concessions.” He smoothed an invisible wrinkle in the ruby satin dressing gown that was most certainly not hospital-issued, and crossed one lambskin-moccasin-clad foot over his leg.

 

Credence nodded, but remained in the doorway, bowed over like a sapling in the snow, and gripping his left elbow with his right hand.

 

Graves set his pen down and focused his full attention on Credence. Steepling his fingers against his chin, he asked mildly, “What are your plans from here? Where are you staying?”

 

Credence balked slightly, not at the directness, but at having to admit he had no plans or provisions. He lifted one shoulder and shifted his gaze to the other side of the floor.

 

“If you have somewhere in mind I can make arrangements for you to get there safely,” Graves continued, “but if, as I suspect, you are not presently accommodated, I would be remiss in letting you go without at least offering you an alternative.”

 

It was posturing. When Graves was nervous or uncomfortable, his speech patterns grew more formal, as if reminding his challenger that he was old magic and not to be trifled with. However, Credence wasn't exactly comfortable himself, and he wasn’t in the mood to parse it. “What are you asking?”

 

Graves sighed. “If you don’t have somewhere else to go, would you consider staying with me?”

 

Credence unfolded, long limbs pulling away from his torso. Graves marvelled again at how tall he was with the weight removed from his shoulders. 

 

“With you?” Credence said numbly. “Here?”

 

Graves gave a concessionary nod. “Unfortunately, yes. I would offer you my home but since--” he trailed off and cleared his throat. “Well, it's just best no one be there for now.”

 

Credence shook his head reluctantly, expression pained. “I wouldn't want you to...not for me. You have-” he gestured vaguely to the mounds of work around the bed.

 

“I understand if you don't want to, of course,” Graves said quickly. 

 

“It's not that,” Credence whispered. He hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

 

“It would be my genuine pleasure to have you here.” It was a gamble, but Graves was not a man to take an uncalculated risk. Credence needed desperately to be wanted. And  _ oh _ , selfishly Graves did want him. But more importantly, though perhaps just as selfish, Graves would rest easier knowing that Credence was warm and protected. There was no one besides himself with whom Graves would earnestly entrust Credence’s safety. Not anymore.

 

Credence, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his pants, looked up through his bangs. The corners of his mouth twitched up in a small smile, delicate as the first bud of spring breaking through ice.

 

Graves raised his eyebrows expectantly and Credence nodded.

 

__________

 

Credence was perplexed when Graves sent for a tailor. Not because he couldn’t see the need-- _ ”With your build? We’ll have to alter everything anyway. Might as well start with decent stock.” _ \--but because he sent for a tailor to be brought to his ( _ their _ ) room. 

 

“I thought you weren’t allowed to have visitors,” Credence ventured.

 

Graves frowned, lips pursed and head tilted. “Who told you that?”

 

Credence shrugged and focused intently on flicking one of the chair’s tufted leather buttons. “Heard it somewhere. That the doctors weren’t letting in visitors besides family.”

 

Graves huffed. “The doctors didn’t say any such thing. That restriction was entirely self-imposed.”

 

Credence still had questions, but they would all lead down a dangerous path that could reveal his secret so he kept quiet. Thankfully the arrival of the tailor took away any need to fill the silence.

 

She was small, both in stature and frame, and wore a corduroy suit and damask vest. Her attitude was all business, though, and she wielded a tape measure that followed her wand movements through the air, wrapping itself around Credence at every angle and displaying numbers in light after each one.

 

Credence could feel Graves’ gaze on him as he turned and stretched when ordered. He hoped the view was better than the performance, since he felt ridiculously on display. 

 

“Shirt off,” the tailor commanded.

 

“Excuse me?” Credence squeaked. 

 

She shot him an unamused look. “Shirt. Off. I can’t get accurate measurements over fabric.” She tugged at a piece of the baggy shirt, pinched between thumb and forefinger. 

 

Credence spared a glance over to Graves, who was politely pretending to be buried in his work. Of course Credence had entertained the idea of undressing for Mr. Graves, but in his fantasies they had been rather more alone. The short witch was terrifying, though, so he obeyed. His fingers fumbled with the narrow buttons, like enormous logs trying to grasp river pebbles. The tailor was tapping her foot impatiently beside him, but he got the impression everyone was too slow for her schedule. 

 

A flush ran down his neck as more skin was bared, painting deep red on milky white. In his haste to escape after first changing back, he hadn't even had time to snatch an undershirt from the clothesline. As the final button slipped free from its hole, Credence let the shirt fall to the floor.

 

Graves managed not to gasp, but it was close. A gnarled mass of scars crossed Credence’s back, raised tissue healing almost blue pale vining with newer marks, still angry pink.

 

He must have made some noise, because Credence spun around, that familiar panicked fear on his face. That wouldn't do at all.

 

“You may want to have someone take a look at those,” he explained. “We are in a hospital, so there's no better time.”

 

Credence studied him, eyes shuttered, thoroughly unconvinced.

 

“It's all right,” Graves assured him. “Everything is going to be fine.”

 

He couldn’t guarantee that, but he knew it was true. Credence was so strong, so resilient. If he could survive what he did and come out the other side still this kind and sweet spirited, he could survive anything. And one thing Graves could guarantee: Credence would not have to endure anything alone anymore. In whatever capacity he was wanted, Graves would be there for Credence.

 

The shy smile Credence returned was radiant. He had always been a handsome man, even emaciated and abused. It had been difficult enough for Graves to ignore his attraction even then, when more immediate needs took precedence. But now, when they stood as equals with Credence finally able to blossom into the man he was meant to be, he couldn’t help but stare. 

 

And whatever diminutives might be used, Credence was no child. A trim, tapered waist led down from broad ribs, narrowing into his pelvic region over angular hip bones with a generous sprinkling of wiry hair. His shoulders, though thin, were firmly muscled up to his collar bone. No boyish squareness remained anywhere visible in his angular form. Graves wondered what he looked like in the areas that weren’t visible. 

 

He shut that thought down immediately. Just because Credence had shown interest in him did not entitle him to act on his desires. Infatuation didn’t mean anything. It was better for both of them if he stayed safely distant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not I work on this story every day. I really just am that slow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence learns more about magic, featuring Unintentional Sugar Daddy!Graves.
> 
> Mentions of (canon) minor character death.

Graves screamed in his sleep. Great tortured cries of angst, strangled yells that died in his throat, even whimpered sobs. Credence was certain the man was unaware of it, or he would be mortified at such a show of vulnerability.

 

Besides, Credence wasn't at all sure he, himself, didn't do the same.

 

No, sleep deserved a certain level of privacy. Whatever happened to Mr. Graves in his dreams was his alone to know. But it still broke Credence’s heart. He would give anything they could all just move forward cleanly, instead of gripped by the sticky strands of pain and trauma with every movement.

 

In his own dreams, the Darkness pursued Credence. It hovered on the edge of his vision, whispers of smoke, black as the void. Even in otherwise pleasant dreams, it was always there, lurking just a step behind.

 

Sometimes when he was awake, he could push it away for a time, out of the forefront of his thoughts. It was pure relief, but it was also enormous guilt. What right did he have to forget what he'd done, what he was? The soot inside his soul hurt the people he loved. Not that Credence had much experience with love.

 

He wasn't entirely sure what love was, in all honesty. He loved his sister Modesty, would have done anything to protect her. But he failed at that. And his Ma always told him the beatings were out of love and fear for his wicked soul. So perhaps he didn't love Modesty or Chastity at all, since he could never have whipped them. He thought he loved Ma, the only mother he could remember, but then he became the monster she always feared and killed her. You didn't kill people you love; he knew that for sure. He prayed that he had at least loved the mother he couldn't remember.

 

He thought perhaps, now, he had more people he loved. Tina, kind, brave Tina who risked her whole world for  _ him _ . Tina’s wonderful sister Queenie, who treated him like a person and wasn't afraid despite surely knowing what he'd done. And then there was Mr. Graves. 

 

Credence was fairly positive he loved Mr. Graves, although it felt different than it did with his family or his new friends. Every time Graves spoke to him it sent warm shivers through his stomach that he was sure the man could see with his piercing gaze that never missed a detail. Even when he went off to do other things, eventually something inside him called him back to Mr. Graves, the silent beacon through the storm inside his heart. And no matter how long they spent together, it would never be long enough. 

 

But he couldn't love Mr. Graves, or at least he shouldn't. The same thing that made it feel different than loving the Goldstein sisters made it dangerous. If Queenie or Tina did not return his affection, he would be content to care for them anyway. If Mr. Graves rejected his feelings, well. That sort of pain would make it difficult to control the  _ thing _ that lived inside him. He had to control it. He could  _ never _ let it touch Mr. Graves.

 

Even so, he couldn’t help the feeling that wrapped around his stomach when Mr. Graves praised him, or the shiver of pleasure when he touched him. Sometimes Credence thought it might feel better than magic.

__________

 

The strangest thing about real magic, Credence decided, was how  _ pervasive _ it was. Nearly every little thing one did could could be done, and better, using magic. He couldn't fathom why Ma felt it was evil. It was all pure wonder to him. 

 

He first experienced it around the medi-witches who came by every few hours to annoy Graves. Potions were administered with a wand wave that sent decanters floating to their target. Bed sheets and bandages would change themselves when directed. Witches were like conductors, waving their wands and orchestrating the beautiful music of everyday minutiae.

 

He loved watching Queenie do magic. Wielded in her delicate hand, a wand was not a weapon, but a tool. Charms were her specialty, and made even mundane chores an art. After their first visit, Credence hadn’t expected to see her again. And yet, just a week later, a hummingbird flitted near his ear and requested, in her lilting voice, that he join her in the cafeteria. The hummingbird acted alive, but was silvery blue, translucent and ethereal. If asked, Credence would claim he handled its appearance with calm curiosity. In reality he fell out of his chair. 

 

When Graves finished laughing he told the backside of Credence’s floor-bound form that it was a patronus, a spell useful for communication among other things. 

 

Once Credence had righted himself and his wounded dignity, he pressed for details about patronuses. Graves wasn’t overindulgent with details. He declined when asked to produce his own, granting only that his manifested as an arctic wolf, and that it was “advanced magic” and Credence likely wouldn’t attempt it early in his studies. That got his attention.

 

“My studies?” he coaxed, leaning forward in his chair, toward the hospital bed.

 

“Yes, of course,” Graves confirmed. “Assuming you should want to learn magic. It will require no small amount of discipline.”

 

“I get to learn magic?” Credence’s face lit up, radiant with the same awe that every magical child experienced when they first presented. Well, nearly every child. But for a moment, the years melted away, removing the time stolen when he, too, should have been introduced to his own powers.

 

Graves couldn’t help a fond smile, cupping Credence’s cheek in his palm and caressing his cheekbone with a calloused thumb.

 

Credence’s face fell, the delicate spell over the moment broken. “What if I--can’t?” he whispered.

 

Bringing his other hand up to cup the opposite cheek, Graves smoothed the concerned wrinkles away from the younger man’s coal-dark eyes. 

 

“My darling boy,” Graves said, voice low and thick with unshed emotion, “I think even your failures will astound us all.”

 

True to his word, Graves had a catalog of books sent by that afternoon’s pigeon mail for Credence’s perusal. 

 

“You’ll need a solid history text, of course, basic charms, and perhaps herbology,” Graves suggested. 

 

Credence nodded agreeably, overjoyed for any wizard knowledge he could obtain.

 

“I’m leaving out potions for the time being because, frankly, I’m not suited to teach it,” Graves admitted.

 

“What else is there?” Credence wondered.

 

Graves looked to the ceiling as he counted off on his fingers. “Oh, let’s see--numerology, astronomy, transfiguration, protection and defensive spellwork, American history from a No-Maj perspective...there are many.”

 

Credence hung on his every word, tipping slightly forward with each new subject until he was nearly overbalanced from his perch atop the desk. 

 

“Can I study them all?” he requested.

 

“Why don’t you start with a few core subjects and supplement them with something for your own enjoyment?” Graves offered.

 

“It’ll be all I can do to earn enough for just the essentials,” Credence said softly, tucking his curls behind his ears with long fingers. 

 

Although he said it as if he was simply stating a fact, Graves could sense the longing that the boy seldom voiced: a deep inner mourning for all the time spent lacking the basest of needs, things so many simply took for granted. For so long, the boy had wanted for food, adequate shelter, decent clothing, permission to make his own decisions. At some point, without any conscious effort, Graves had developed an insatiable desire to ensure that Credence never wanted for anything again.

 

“Don’t worry about the cost. I will take care of everything,” he assured. With desperate desire came overwhelming lack of subtlety, apparently. Still, he supposed, better to remove any possible concern. Mercy knew the young man had enough to worry about without adding money to the list, and it’s not like Graves was using it. Mounds of gold gathering dust in a vault was hardly the legacy he wanted to leave. He lived more than comfortably on his own salary without touching his inheritance.

 

Credence was hesitant, as expected, to accept such blatant generosity. No-strings-attached only existed in fairy tales and Credence had never been a dreamer. Graves narrowly avoided telling him that his own heartstrings might be attached. 

 

In the end, Credence agreed, on the grounds that investing in his magical education was a necessary part of integration into his new world. Besides, his sixth-grade education might be bare minimum in the No-Maj world, but it was fully sufficient as a cornerstone for a magical one.

 

Self-sharpening pencil in hand, Credence attacked the order form at the back of the catalog with uncharacteristic aplomb. Deep in concentration, he drew his bottom lip into his mouth and alternated between sucking on it and worrying the top layer of skin with his front teeth, occasionally letting it slip out entirely. Plumped by the attention, it grew slick and flushed deep red. Graves followed it's journey with rapacious eyes, which thankfully Credence didn't notice. 

 

While Credence poured over his options, Graves sent for an old companion. Credence fell immediately in love with Androcles, the russet Great Horned Owl, who allowed the boy to stroke his ear tufts and accepted the order form without fuss.

 

In a matter of hours, Credence was laden with a pile of books up to his thigh and wasted no time diving into  _ Charms and Enchantments: A Primer _ . Graves surreptitiously watched, under the guise of watching the weather through the large lead-paned window. His heart swelled with affection until he was afraid it might actually burst. Good thing he was already in a hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta felt that I'm a Queenie tease. I do want to bring her back in and will try to do so soon.
> 
> I cry about fictional characters on tumblr @ cleverlittlecookie.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence is a touch-starved ho and my beta's awkward children meet again at last. Welcome back Tina. 
> 
> No additional chapter warnings. (Say whaaaat?)

Credence’s requisite for human touch was becoming insatiable. The more he received, the worse it grew, until it felt like he couldn’t breathe without the grounding of warm skin against his own. Anyone who didn’t try to hurt him was fair game. A brush of fingers when money was exchanged, a firm handshake on introduction, or the delicate hand Queenie would always place on his shoulder whenever he made her laugh; anything would do. It would be so easy, by himself, to internally dissolve and leave his broken body, but Credence didn’t want to do that anymore. He wanted to be here, be present. So much in his life was beautiful now and he didn’t want to miss a minute of it.

 

He had a bed of his own in the spacious room, smuggled in miniature in the pocket of a very disgruntled Abernathy (who was  _ not a mail owl, sir _ ) and enlarged to fit him, but he often found himself sleeping in his chair by Graves’ bed anyway. The overstuffed leather cushions hugged him everywhere they touched, in any position he nested. Over time the chair had sneaked its way closer and closer to the bed, until finally the front of the chair seat butted up against the mattress near the head. Neither of them had mentioned it, unwilling to disturb the tentative thread that now connected their lives.

 

Most days, whenever Credence wasn’t exploring the hospital or grounds, he and his companion could be found in the same spots. Graves lounged on his bed, above the bedclothes and propped up against an inhuman number of pillows, and Credence sprawled in his chair, legs extended up and onto the bed. A few days after adopting that routine, Graves casually laid his hand on Credence’s ankle that rested near that hip, on the bare skin where his pant cuff rode up. 

 

The first time it happened, Credence’s heart sped up into the fluttering of butterfly wings, hairs standing on end. Every nerve in his body was focused on that one spot, warmed by the large palm blanketing it. He could feel each callous on the man’s otherwise soft hand individually: one on each index and middle finger pad, and one on the heel where it arced into his thumb. Credence traced the areas on his own hand over and over, puzzling over the odd placement, until it dawned on him that it was where his wand must rest.

 

Each time the gesture grew more natural, until Graves hand felt like an extension of Credence’s own body. Never content to be underestimated, sometimes Graves felt the need to stop Credence’s heart by squeezing affectionately or stroking his thumb over the protruding ankle bone.

 

Some days Credence was fine. Some days Credence needed that touch more than he needed oxygen. Some days it felt as if those scant square inches were all that held his spirit inside his body, all that kept the creature inside him soothed. At first he had hoped--prayed, even--that its silence meant it was gone. That perhaps the spells that rent his flesh from bone had also torn the wicked beast from its stranglehold on his soul. To his dismay, it had only been injured. Still it lurked, black ash coating his heart.

 

This Darkness inside him had a name. Mr. Graves had suspected and the oddly gentle Mr. Scamander confirmed, the thing was an obscurus. But the thing being an obscurus meant Credence was an obscurial and he didn't want that name. His name was just Credence, like Mr. Scamander was Newt and Mr. Graves was--

 

“What's your name?” Credence asked, disrupting the comfortable silence of their independent study.

 

Graves looked away from his notes, and cocked an eyebrow, perplexed.

 

“You know my name.”

 

Credence tilted his head to the side, hair flopping over his forehead like spaniel ears. “But what do your friends call you?”

 

“Graves,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing behind thin-rimmed glasses. It wasn't true. Strictly speaking, he didn't have friends. But colleagues called him Graves so he counted it as truth bent more than broken.

 

“Is that what your mother called you?”

 

Graves smiled wryly. “No, she always called me Percival. She was a proper woman, maintaining propriety to her final breath.”

 

Credence understood that well. Still, “What about in school?” 

 

“Believe it or not, even then I was just Graves,” he answered.

 

Credence made a face. “That's not very personal,” he complained. 

 

“No, I suppose it isn't,” Graves chuckled. “It gets the job done, though. Would you rather I be called Percy?”

 

Credence vetoed that. 

 

“Just as well,” Graves admitted. “The last person who called me that was my great grandmother, may she rest in peace.”

 

Credence scrunched his mouth up and hesitated. 

 

“May I call you Percival?”

 

Graves stilled and went quiet.

 

Credence could hear the silence, ringing in his ears, growing louder with each passing second. The thump of his heartbeat competed, blood rushing in a typhoon against his eardrums. He had messed up. He didn’t know how, but he must have. If only he could retract the words, draw them like fishing line back into his foolish, incorrigible mouth. 

 

But then,

 

“Of course you may. You’ll be the first to call me that in years.”

 

And,

 

“I find myself experiencing a lot of firsts with you.”

 

Credence wasn't sure if Mr. Graves--Percival--considered that a good thing, but it certainly had been one for him.

 

A sharp stab of remorse shot through Graves at the pure relief written on Credence’s face. It could simply be another holdover of doubt from his years of privation, but it could also be that Percival himself had not adequately demonstrated how much he cared for the young man. Had he known Credence was waiting for his permission to call him by his name, well. He would have gladly given anything to Credence, but that was one thing he never should have had to ask at all.

 

Could anyone really fault him for caution, though? The boundary between friend and lover was less of a line and more of a poorly delineating fog when attraction was involved, and there was no doubt that Credence was attracted to him. His sweet, tender heart was still displayed in a glass case for all to see, vulnerable as ever. He couldn’t do anything that would put his precious boy at risk for further heartbreak. 

 

Percival didn’t exactly have a wealth of experience to draw from on either side of the friend-lover divide, if he was honest. He wasn’t a monk, but on his ladder of priorities, relationships of all types had stayed firmly fixed on a low rung. No, it was much safer if he stayed solidly on the side of friendship that bordered acquaintance. 

 

It would have been nice if even once he could do something the easy way. Everything would have been so simple if he hadn’t gone and fallen in love.

 

__________

 

Credence met with Queenie that Sunday as always, but branched out in his dessert selection at the recommendation of the wizard behind the counter that “young Mister Graves try something new this time”. Whatever it was, it was custardy but fluffy and tasted like cinnamon, he mused as he sucked a spilled bit off of his thumb.

 

“Tiramisu,” Queenie answered his unspoken wondering. 

 

Credence hummed and shoved a large spoonful into his mouth.

 

“I take it young Mister Graves is enjoying his matrimony?” she said lightly, examining her perfectly manicured nails with manufactured disinterest. 

 

Credence swallowed his bit too fast and looked around to see who might be listening.

 

“Of course I am,” he coughed loudly. 

 

_ You’d be enjoying it more if it was real _ , his brain taunted. He prided himself at how quickly he beat that thought back into his subconscious and away from the legilimens across the table.

 

“Oh, sweetie, that’s no secret,” she whispered, lips curling up like a cat preparing for a hunt.

 

Credence’s eyes widened beseechingly. “Please, don’t.”

 

“I’m not going to say a word,” she vowed, placing an open hand over her heart, “but I think you should.”

 

“I can’t do that,” he lamented. “He would hate me. Everyone already hates me. I can’t lose him. I need...friends.”

 

“You weren’t trying to hurt him,” Queenie reminded him. “You haven’t hurt anybody. I think a real friend could forgive you.”

 

Credence shook his head vehemently and changed the subject with no finesse.

 

“Do you think maybe Tina would like to stop by and say hello?”

 

__________

 

Graves looked up from from his papers as a figure in the doorway eclipsed the light from the hall. Credence stood at his full height, nearly six feet if an inch. There was no stoop to his spine or unconscious curling inward. Credence’s frame was slight and willowy, likely always would be, but he held himself differently. It wasn't confidence, not quite. It was more that his posture no longer seemed to apologize for his very existence. It was such a good look on him; Graves couldn't help the gentle smile that curled his lips.

 

“Am I interrupting?” Credence queried. He knew it was his room, too, but he tried to be respectful of the other man’s space and privacy.

 

“In fact, you are, and I could not be more pleased for it. Do come in,” Graves answered. He shuffled a few sheaths of paper back into their respective folders and tossed them unceremoniously onto the bedside table.

 

_Tituba’s cake_ , Graves scolded himself. This besotted schoolboy impression would have been out of character even when he was a schoolboy. 

 

Credence strode into the room, followed by two familiar figures.

 

Queenie grinned and waved, wiggling her fingers. Never one to hold grudges, that girl.

 

“Hello Mr. Graves,” she chirped. “It’s good to see you looking well.”

 

He nodded his acquiescence and offered a similar casual greeting.

 

The other Goldstein hovered just inside the room, looking like she couldn’t decide whether to jump out of the window or hex someone.

 

The tension when her eyes met Graves’ was palpable, strung tight and inflexible. Percival took no umbrage with awkwardness ordinarily, but he knew this time much of it was his fault. Or, not his fault, but still his responsibility to fix.

 

“Goldstein. Tina,” Graves nearly pleaded. He didn’t know how to do this. He was raised a Graves, proud and unapologetic. But he needed her to know the truth, and how sorry he was. For everything. For what had been done to her, to everyone, using his face and power.

 

“I did not...wish you dead.”  _ Close enough. _

 

Bemused, Tina nodded. “Thank you. I think. I’m--I’m glad you’re not dead, too. Also. Sir.”

 

Graves nodded back. That could have gone much worse.

 

Queenie conjured a chair for herself and her sister, who perched stiffly on the edge like it might bite her, but did attempt to hold up her end of the conversation.

 

Percival wasn’t necessarily comfortable with the situation, and Credence could feel it even if he couldn’t see the tension in every line of muscle, but it was important. He needed the man to see that there were still people out there who cared. If they could care about Credence, who had never done anything worthwhile in his miserable life, then they could certainly grow to regain trust in Mr. Graves, who was a hero in his own right.

  
He was certainly Credence’s hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fine mess Credence has gotten himself into. Oh what a tangled web we weave.
> 
> I hang out on tumblr cleverlittlecookie.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence has literally never done anything wrong ever, Graves is a self-deprecating moron, and life is somehow still magical.
> 
> Chapter warnings: none

Graves screamed in his sleep, and Credence just couldn't bear it anymore. He couldn't listen to the man he loved suffer and just lie there doing nothing. So he did the only thing he knew to do.

 

When Credence had nightmares and cried out in his sleep, Modesty would slip into his room, avoiding the squeakier boards with practiced ease, and climb under the blanket with him. Sometimes she slid her small hand into his, a silent reassurance that he wasn't alone. If he woke, she would pat his cheek and promise him that things would be okay. It was a lie neither of them believed, but somehow it was comforting regardless.

 

Credence slipped out of his chair, padded to the open side of the bed, and slipped beneath the blanket but above the sheet. Cautiously, he wiped his palm on his pants to dry the fear-sweat and ever so slowly clasped Percival’s hand. His own rough palm rasped against the other man’s smooth skin, but he pressed on, ending by twining his bony fingers with Graves’ sturdy ones.

 

Percival calmed at the touch but didn’t wake. Credence, on his side facing him, focused on the point where their hands met, below the webbing of their thumbs. He could feel their heartbeats, fast in tempo but discordant in rhythm. He could feel the tremor that ran through Percival’s body along with a pained whine. Credence rubbed back and forth with his thumb in a similar soothing motion to the one Percival used on him, and he quieted again. The pattern repeated several times, but Credence focused on their heartbeats, slowing over time, mellowing into beats that felt like raindrops instead of war drums.

 

As early morning light began to creep across the horizon, Percival stirred, waking Credence as he rolled over to face the younger man. Credence blinked blearily and smiled, bright and radiant and so beautiful.

 

Credence placed a hand on Percival’s face, cupping his cheek in his palm. “Everything is going to be okay,” he whispered.

 

Percival was only human. He had been strong, denied himself for so long. The single most incredible man he had ever met was in his bed. No higher power could possibly blame him. So he kissed him.

 

Credence’s lips were just as full and soft as they looked, and Percival eagerly captured them in his own. A soft gasp escaped before Credence returned the kiss, pressing in with a fervor. For that one moment of weakness, Percival poured everything he had into the kiss, hoping to somehow convey love and admiration through one simple action. Credence responded with shy enthusiasm, parting his lips and meeting Percival’s tongue with his own.

 

All too soon, reason returned bringing crushing guilt. With a final, chaste kiss Graves pulled back, reaching up to cradle Credence’s face in his palms. He let his hands slide down in a gentle caress.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have done that. Please forget this happened.”

 

The joy slipped from Credence’s face like rain down a window pane. Percival felt every bit the monster he was for causing more pain to someone who deserved it so little. But it had to be that way. He would only hurt Credence more if they were romantically involved. Better a relatively small amount of pain now than inevitable heartbreak.

 

__________

  
  


As Percival knew he would, Credence respected his request. He was emotionally distant for a few days, but Graves was persistent. He treated Credence exactly the same as always, with small touches and plenty of encouragement, and as days drew on they went back to their flavor of normal.

 

Credence continued to devour every word in his books with the voracity of a man starved, fascinated by spellwork theory. Percival read books, too, thick leather bound tomes much like the ones he bought for Credence. What he was studying, Credence couldn’t guess. After the first set of documents, there had been no further deliveries from his office that Credence had seen. 

 

He wouldn’t complain about that. Percival surely needed time away if he was going to heal, and it did appear that he was physically mending. Most often the man wore only his silk robe over a white undershirt and pinstriped cotton pants, and in what could be seen in the dip of the neckline vee, he was dramatically improving. The healers seemed to think so too, since visits from medi-witches had been dropping off steadily until they only stopped by in passing once a day unless summoned. Actually, Credence wasn’t sure exactly why Percival still needed to be in the hospital; they could easily floo back for therapy sessions.

 

Magic, as it turned out, could not cure all ills. Discovering that information disappointed Credence, but probably not as much as it irked Percival. Potions helped him gain back weight but only effort could rebuild muscle. As part of the due process of recovery, good old fashioned physical therapy was prescribed: strict exercises twice per day in their room, and two additional times per week with a magi-physiologist in the rehabilitation wing. Credence assisted as much as he could with the daily exercises, but the more-rigorous rehab sessions were Graves’ alone. Credence far preferred the company of his books to that of the tight-laced magi-physiologist. 

 

The lack of work pressure on Percival worked in Credence’s favor, since the uninterrupted days gave him nearly undivided attention from the wizard whenever he wanted it. He took full advantage of the opportunity, often asking for history or pronunciation, attempting to fully understand every spell he added to his arsenal. 

 

Percival was surprisingly willing to turn over his wand to the boy. Credence had been led to understand that a wand was rather personal, and that magic users were not often parted from it. Nevertheless, for hours at a time Credence possessed the ebony wand, and Percival showed no sign of discomfort at having it away. Sometimes he made aborted motions toward his side, where it would ordinarily be kept, but he did that even before Credence began borrowing it. 

 

It was odd; Credence hadn’t really seen him do much magic since they reunited. Perhaps he simply wasn’t as reliant on it as other wizards. 

 

He easily complied when Credence asked him for help with wand movements. Pressing his firm body against the slim line of Credence’s back, he drew his own arm down the boy’s sleeve, wrapping his fingers around bony digits. Like an ancient dance, the movements as natural as the tides, Percival guided Credence’s motions, gently correcting angle or stance and leading him from one into another intuitively. 

  
Of course Percival was always graceful. Credence had never seen him falter. But this--this was a whole new level of coordination. Credence’s inner cloud of doubt reminded him that he would never be able to repeat any of it unassisted. He wasn’t half as controlled as Percival even when doing housework. Another part of Credence’s brain didn’t care if he wasn’t as good as Graves. That part longed to see the man in battle, face set in concentration, muscles tight with exertion, casting spells like throwing knives--fast and deadly. That part was very wrong, terribly wrong indeed, and Credence only allowed it to feed his imagination for a moment before shoving it forcefully to the side. Whatever Credence had thought, had  _ hoped _ , Percival didn’t want him. His feelings would just have to stay as deeply buried as his obscurus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever. I know this, and I'm sorry. I got a kitten and she is not good for productivity. The next chapter is well underway and (hopefully) won't take as long to post. Thank you so much for all of the wonderful comments I've received! They really make my day <3
> 
> If you want to rant about fictional characters or just rant in general, I'm on tumblr: cleverlittlecookie.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has their secrets. It’s all fun and games until the lies start to unravel.
> 
> Chapter warnings: None.

In stories, days that held life-changing events were heralded by storms, or omens, or at least a sense of impending doom. Credence wasn’t given any warning at all. 

 

It was early afternoon, in the lazy hours after lunch when motivation dulls and naps beckon from the corner of the mind. Graves was doing a series of routine stretches to improve flexibility in the tendons he’d had to regrow, and Credence was lying upside down across his bed, head and shoulders falling toward the floor. He twirled Percival’s wand through his fingers like a baton, occasionally transfiguring a pencil a few feet away into a dessert dish and back again.

 

Like every other afternoon, a medi-witch stopped by to check in on Percival during her rounds. She swapped out his water pitcher, changed the bedsheets, and tidied up a bit. Credence rolled over and sat up on his bed in a more socially acceptable position.

 

When she was finished, the witch bid them good afternoon and headed for the door. She paused in the doorway and turned back to the men. 

 

“Oh yes, and Mr. Graves,” she said.

 

“Yes?” Percival responded.

 

“Oh, I'm sorry. I meant your husband.”

 

“Ah. Of course,” Percival said calmly, as if it was the easiest mistake to make, and one he was quite accustomed to accommodating.

 

Credence blanched. He could actually feel his face grow ice cold as the blood drained down to fuel his heart in its quest to break through his rib cage. 

 

The witch, blissfully unaware of Credence’s imminent demise, gave him the message. He said something back, she laughed in reply, and then she left. Later he would have no memory of the exchange. He would remember clearly accidentally meeting Graves’ eyes. He couldn't read them, both for inability and lack of desire. 

 

For his part, Graves was doing his best to school his expression into calmness. Credence’s eyes were clouding, milky cataracts enveloping the peat-dark irises. Graves would not provoke it. 

 

Barely a breath after, Credence dropped the wand, leapt from his bed and flew to the fireplace. He flung a handful of sparkling powder into the flames and followed after it as the fire flared emerald.

 

Then, with a strained but firm cry of “Woolworth Building”, Credence vanished.

 

He stumbled out of the fireplace on the other end, landing hard on his hands and knees. His stomach rolled threateningly, upset at the new experience.

 

Credence hadn’t ever travelled by fireplace before, but he had seen other people step out of the one in their room and seen Percival make calls, so he had the general idea of how it worked. What he hadn’t known was what it felt like to be squeezed through a sausage skin tube. He hoped wizards had better methods of travel, as he wasn’t certain he’d ever get used to that feeling.

 

Brushing ash from his shirtsleeves, his eyes landed on a brass badge that was securely pinned to his shirt that read ‘VISITOR’. Still too upset to waste any time wondering how on earth it got there, he pivoted, trying to spin around and see everything without looking too conspicuous. He had only seen the building through the glass front doors before. Frankly, it was overwhelming. 

 

The foyer had no ceiling, so the view was straight up to the top of the building. The walls were alternating black and white granite blocks, accented by massive columns and enormous gold birds.

 

He didn’t see any sort of desk or reception area, nor did he feel confident enough to ask someone for directions. Only thing to do would be to start looking. 

 

Taking the open stairs two at a time and avoiding the spiked iron railing, he darted around a group of people milling around and barrelled into the nearest elevator, nearly standing on a short, bipedal creature with bat ears and tiny beetle eyes, wearing a bellhop uniform. Apparently some elevators in the magical world still operated like normal ones.

 

Credence squeaked, which he supposed was more polite than the surprised yell that had wanted to come out. The creature did not look impressed. 

 

“Goin’ up?” it growled.

 

“I’m not sure,” Credence admitted. “Do you know Queenie Goldstein?”

 

The bellhop jerked its head in what might have been an affirmative and yanked the lever. The elevator shot up and the door reopened on a dimly lit floor filled with a maze of desks and half walls.

 

“Wand permits,” the bellhop grunted.

 

Credence thanked him and stepped off the elevator. The room was somehow cavernous and suffocating at the same time. He had no idea where to look. Standing up on his toes, he searched for blonde hair. The third try found him at Queenie’s desk.

 

Queenie leaped out of her chair to hug Credence, kissing him on the cheek before pulling away.

 

“Not that I’m not glad to see you, but what are you doing here, honey?” she asked.

 

“He found out,” Credence choked, feeling like he was finally breathing for the first time since the fireplace. “A nurse, she didn’t know. She called me his husband.”

 

“And he kicked you out?” she gasped. 

 

“No!” Credence assured her. “No, he didn’t. I just left.”

 

He stared steadfastly at his shoes, thinking about multiplication tables to keep his thoughts clear.

 

“Well, what did he say before you left?” she coaxed.

 

“He didn’t really have time to say anything,” he admitted. “She left the room and I jumped in the fireplace.”

 

“Oh, Credence sweetie, how could you?” Queenie groaned. 

 

“I panicked!” Credence tried to defend himself by covering his chest with his arms. He focused on that moment of pure adrenaline fear, willing Queenie to see his memory.

 

“All right,“ she sighed. “Yes I suppose it was a natural reaction. But think how he must be feeling right now. To find out everyone thinks he’s married, only to have his husband just leave him.”

 

“You know I’m not actually his--”

 

She waved off his protests.

 

“What if he didn't even know you like him that way? What is he supposed to think?” she demanded.

 

Credence stopped pouting and perked up.

 

“He doesn't know?”

 

“No, he knows,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

 

“Then why did you--wait. You said you couldn't read his mind,” he accused.

 

“I can't. But I can read his face just fine. And sweetie, he is gone on you,” she assured.

 

Credence slumped visibly and chewed a fingernail. “He doesn't want me.”

 

He brought the memory of their kiss to the front of his thoughts, reliving the passion and crushing rejection all over again. 

 

“Oh.” Queenie’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh no, he wants you. He just maybe needs a little--” she made an overacted shoving gesture, “push. Ya know?”

 

Credence nodded. He did not know at all, but he was well versed in the ‘nod and agree’ method.

 

Queenie clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Look. You gotta talk to the guy eventually. I mean, you live with him. He's not--” she scrunched up her face, searching hard for the right descriptor. “Totally unreasonable. Do it fast. Just like pulling off a wax strip. Get it over with.”

 

Pulling together every ounce of tragic orphan he had in him, Credence bit his lip and presented her with his saddest pleading face.

 

“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?” he begged.

 

“Don't you try that with me, mister!” Queenie chided. “You dug this hole yourself.”

 

His lower lip began to tremble. 

 

She sighed heavily in defeat. “Fine. You can stay with me and Teenie tonight. But tomorrow you will talk to him even if I have to drag you there. Mercy knows I never dreamed I'd see the day when I felt sorry for Director Graves.”

 

Dropping the sad act instantly, Credence lunged forward and hugged Queenie around the neck, nearly toppling them both backwards. She rocked them back and forth on their feet, like a stationary dance. 

 

“Queenie,” he mumbled into her neck, “I think I’m in love with him.”

 

“Oh, sweetie. I know.”

 

__________

 

Credence enjoyed his time at Tina and Queenie’s apartment, savoring the expert cooking and pretending his life wasn’t falling apart.

 

He bedded down on the couch, refusing to evict either of them from their beds. Once alone and in the dark though, he had nothing to distract him from his worries. He tossed and turned and managed a few fitful hours of sleep before dawn broke and forced his hand. It was time to face the music.

 

Tina and Queenie escorted him as far as the hospital lobby, but insisted they had to get to work after. Credence suspected they didn’t want to be forced to participate in whatever confrontation lay ahead.

 

As Credence trudged the familiar halls to his-- _ well, probably just Percival’s now _ \--room, he felt like even the ugly portraits of old hospital administrators were judging him for his sins.

 

He stopped just outside the doorway, hidden from view of the bed, and summoned whatever bits of courage he could find. Voices echoed inside the room, but he only recognized Percival’s. The other voice was a woman, and she was present only in her flame avatar in the fireplace.

 

“Percival, be reasonable,” the woman coaxed with a voice like honey over ice. “We played your game. We left you alone. I understand, it’s been a lot to take in. You needed time. But you’ve had time now, and I’m sure you know why I’m contacting you.”

 

“Enlighten me,” Percival drawled.

 

“You have someone there with you. I want to know who, and I want to know why.”

 

Credence held his breath. This wasn’t how he had imagined being exposed, but he supposed it didn’t matter how it happened. The day had already gone as far downhill as it could possibly go. What was one more tragedy?

 

Percival raised both eyebrows, feigning surprise. “Why the sudden interest in my social life?”

 

The woman snorted inelegantly. “Because until now you didn’t have one. What are you hiding?”

 

Credence peeked around the edge of the doorframe until the fireplace came just into view. The woman was familiar, setting off alarm bells in his head, but he couldn’t quite place her.

 

“I’m not hiding anything, Sera. He needed somewhere to stay, and I needed someone around who didn’t ask all kinds of  _ prying questions _ .”

 

Sera didn’t take the bait.

 

“Who. Is. He?” she enunciated, punctuating each word with a sharp click as her teeth snapped together.

 

Credence puzzled over the name. Sera. Sera. Sera-- _phina_. Picquery. The woman was the president. Common sense told him to run, but he had nowhere to go. His only safety net was here, fighting with the president.

 

Percival exhaled hard through his nose. “His name is Credence.”

 

Seraphina narrowed her eyes, shaking her head slowly, clearly missing the implication. Percival waited patiently for her to put the pieces together.

 

Her eyes flew open and she shook her head faster. “No. Surely you don’t mean--”

 

Percival nodded once, certain and defiant.

 

“He was dead,” she protested.

 

A shrug. “He isn’t now.”

 

“You cannot keep an  _ obscurial _ like a common house pet!” Picquery growled. “Did that ever occur to you?”

 

“I am not  _ keeping _ Credence,” Graves spat, viper sharp. “He is a man, not an animal. And he is with me of his own choosing. So long as it remains his desire to stay, I will protect his right to do so, with my very life if necessary.”

 

A warm feeling spread from Credence’s chest to extremities, tingling in his fingers and toes.

 

Picquery laughed, hard and bitter. “You must know how many regulations this violates. If you turn him over immediately I  _ might _ be able to salvage your reputation and save your job.”

 

“Save my job? The one you’re going to let me have back, even like  _ this _ ?” he must have gestured, but Credence couldn’t see it.

 

“We still don’t know if it’s permanent--”

 

“We don’t know that it’s not, either!” Percival protested. “I can’t live the rest of my life wishing for what I had, playing at what I was. And even if I did, I would never give Credence to you. I know what you’ll let the Unspeakables do to him. Not even Grindelwald deserves that.”

 

To her credit, Picquery didn’t flinch. “How long did you think you could hide him?” she asked impassively. 

 

“How long did you think Gellert would be able to infiltrate your ranks?” he retorted, equally cold.

 

“This isn’t about him,” she insisted.

 

“Of course it is. Everything goes back to him,” Graves reasoned. “Don’t you see? The difference is, you and I knew what we were going up against. We knew what was at stake. 

 

“Credence didn’t have a chance. He should have had the entire magical world to back him up. If he was going to be part of this fight, he should have had the protection of a wand, and the knowledge of what he was fighting. And most of all, he should have had me. As Director of Magical Security, I should have been there to defend every magical citizen, including him. And maybe if I had been there, what happened in the subway station never would have happened. I’ll never know. 

 

“I understand why you gave the kill order; I understand it better than anyone. But this isn’t war and I will not let him become another casualty. Not to anyone, least of all you. I’m not good for him, but damn it I’m not going to fail him again. At least I can give him that.”

 

A muscle in his cheek twitched, but otherwise Percival was still. He met Seraphina’s gaze head on, defiant through his potentially-treasonous tirade.

 

Picquery narrowed her eyes, drawing her eyebrows in and forming wrinkles above her nose in her otherwise perfect skin. Such an ugly expression had no place on a face as refined as hers, but Percival couldn’t regret putting it there. So many things he regretted, but not this. Not Credence.

 

She started to speak, but cut herself short, placing thumb and forefinger against the angry wrinkles as if they caused her pain. She pursed her mouth and shook her head as if to physically redirect her train of thought.

 

“Percival,” she tried again, holding her other hand out flat in a placating gesture. “As your oldest friend--”

 

This time he cut her off.

 

“No, Sera. You lost the right to play that card when you failed to notice that I was no longer me. When you blindly accepted orders that defied everything I’ve built, solely because they bore my name.” His voice almost broke on the last word, but he held himself stoic, unwilling to bear the further indignity of letting her see the depth of his wounds.

 

He spared a glance over to where Credence lurked out of sight behind the door, just a flash, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. Credence didn’t miss it.

 

Eyes boring into the fiery image of the president, Graves tilted his chin up, profile as noble as the great heroes of antiquity. “I expect that Credence should face no undue difficulties as he joins his rightful place in wizarding society. But should any arise, know that they must first come through me. Good day, Madam President.”

 

With a hard flick of his wand, the flames dissolved.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muahaha you thought there’d be resolution. I’m on the drama train now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence and Percival finally have their Important Talk, and this time it's make or break.
> 
> Chapter warnings: None

After a moment to come down from the adrenaline rush of defying his longtime best friend and quite possibly the only person who could get him fired, Percival addressed the other erumpent in the room.

 

“Credence, you can come in if you’d like,” he called. 

 

The hunched back and shuffling gait of the man who edged into the room was so reminiscent of the Second Salem boy of before that Percival almost thought it was a hallucination. Only the clothes gave him away as belonging to the present.

 

Credence, who was not a hallucination, raised his eyes to Percival’s without lifting his head. It was a gesture of supplication, probably unconscious, and Percival would rather never see it again unless it was during--well, other things entirely. 

 

“I've only come to apologize,” Credence said, projecting just loudly enough for someone near his own shirt collar to hear.

 

Percival didn't need to hear the words to know the gist. Credence would apologize for his own birth if properly cowed.

 

“My dear boy, whatever for?” Percival asked.

 

Credence shot him an entirely unimpressed look from under his dark eyebrows, and there was the man Percival loved. His spark was still there, vibrant as ever.

 

“For lying, and telling people we were married, and using that position to benefit myself,” Credence recited like he was reading a report in school.

 

“I'm afraid you're going to have to explain,” Percival said with a note of apology in his voice. He wasn't goading. Beyond the minor infraction of pretending a title he hadn't earned ( _ yet _ , his mind supplied before being quickly hushed), he had no idea what Credence was referring to.

 

Credence jutted his lower jaw out, weighing the likelihood of the question being entrapment. Percival waited patiently. Well, not with actual patience, but his facsimile was enough to fool most people. 

 

“The witch at the front desk said you weren't allowed to have visitors, that day I first came. So I lied,” Credence said, quiet but clear.

 

“I assumed as much.”

 

Credence dropped his gaze. “I shouldn't have supplanted the healers’ orders. I could have set back your recovery with my selfishness.”

 

Graves didn't plan to interrupt, but he couldn't let Credence go on a guilt trip for no reason. 

 

“No, it wasn't the healers,” Graves interjected. “The restriction was self imposed.”

 

“What?” Credence gaped. He couldn't imagine not wanting people to show they cared about him.

 

Graves shrugged. “I asked them to turn away any but my immediate family. Of course, I have no living family, but you had no way of knowing that.”

 

Credence scrunched up his nose as he tried to process that information. 

 

“So, you knew the whole time?” he asked.

 

“That you made up a relation? Though I would have imagined you'd go with son, or perhaps nephew,” Percival laughed.

 

“I didn't think of that,” Credence admitted. He had spent a lot of time pondering the why behind that oversight, but he hoped Graves wouldn't look into it too deeply.

 

Percival’s responding smile was so ridiculously fond that if anyone else had seen it, he would have had them obliviated to protect his reputation. 

 

Credence pouted, feeling like the butt of a joke, so Percival opened his arms wide in an obvious invitation. Credence accepted and was promptly enveloped in a full body hug. 

 

“Come, sit,” Percival said, indicating a loveseat that matched Credence’s chair, which Credence was almost certain hadn’t been there the day before.

 

He sat, close to Percival but still not quite touching except for the folds of their clothes.

 

Percival lifted the arm closest to Credence and laid it along the back of the sofa, leaving his side open just in case. Credence hesitated only a few seconds before shifting over to press against Percival, from thigh to ribs, and rest his head on the solid shoulder. He could have held out longer, suspected perhaps he should have, but there was nowhere in the world he felt safer than at Percival’s side.

 

Credence enjoyed the silence, really he did. One of the things he appreciated most about Percival was his ability to sit in silence and feel like somehow they were still building a relationship. It was just that his curiosity was stronger than his ability to hold his tongue.

 

“Why didn’t you want visitors?” Credence asked Percival’s shoulder blade.

 

Percival took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect to be asked eventually, but time didn’t seem to make it easier to think about. He wasn't sure he even knew  _ how _ to tell it. Feeling emotions was bad enough; explaining them was well outside of his carefully constructed metaphorical box.

 

Unconsciously, he pulled his shoulders back and gave it his best try. 

 

“The people that I work with--” he said, already feeling the nagging twinge that said he wasn't doing this justice. “Well, I've known most of them for a very long time.” Attended their weddings, seen the births of their children, brought cake to birthday parties, celebrated when someone made it to retirement. How could he put words to the bond between people who have carried each other away from the fallen bodies of teammates? Who have physically held the blood inside of someone's body, praying they would  _ just hold on _ ?

 

“We were close.” It wasn't enough. But it had to be. Credence would understand. All those who suffer do.

 

He stopped for a few breaths, but Credence didn't say anything. Percival was dragging the story from deep inside, and Credence was afraid if he was distracted it might escape and burrow back where it had been buried.

 

“I thought they knew me. But G--” Percival choked on the name. “But  _ he _ took my place and no one said a word. I was trapped down there, clinging to the only thread of hope I had: that they would find me in time. Surely they would come looking for me.”

 

He smiled, close-mouthed and bitter. “Finally I'm rescued, only to learn they didn't see through him. If not for you, Credence, if not for the subway station…” He let the thought trail off. Credence was there. He knew the rest.

 

Credence hooked his little finger in Percival’s, in a silent show of support. This time, the responding smile had the faintest hint of brightness under the melancholy. A muscle in Credence’s abdomen was spasming, spawning a violent shiver that ran down his spine. He was hardly innocent, himself.

 

“They didn't notice,” Percival said. “It didn't matter what anyone said or did. It wouldn't change the fact that they couldn't tell me from a mass murderer. So I shut them out. Everyone.”

 

Acid tears stung Credence’s eyes. He wasn't any more deserving of Percival’s company than anyone else. He had accepted Mr. Graves right up until the difference literally slapped him in the face.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Credence choked out. “I’m so sorry. I didn't. I can’t--” Credence broke down into heaving sobs, collapsing against Percival’s chest. Hot tears ran down and spread salt into a reopened sore. It was the most tolerable pain Graves had ever experienced. 

 

Percival carded a hand through the other man’s thick curls, circling fingertips gently against his scalp. Credence’s skin was flame to the touch and shudders wracked his fragile body as his grief finally found a physical release. Percival shushed him softly, more comforting than quieting. His crying gentled to a more sustainable level.

 

Careful hands held Credence close, one on his head and the other rubbing soothing circles into his back, until the tears subsided and breathing steadied from gasping wheezes into slight, hiccuping breaths. Credence burrowed against the comforting weight of the man beside him and the two lay in peaceful silence as the sun moved the shadows across the room.

 

“I don’t care much for white,” Percival commented eventually, apropos of nothing. 

 

Credence laughed wetly. “Yes, how dare it masquerade as a color,” he replied indulgently.

 

Percival snorted softly. “It can only be what it is. If you add anything to it, it isn’t white anymore,” he said, gesturing to the rows of white porcelain tile along the walls. “I like a color that can experience things, take on new life, and be just as beautiful.”

 

Huffing in confusion, Credence said, “That’s a terrible metaphor.”

 

“It’s terrible tile,” Percival said, and pressed his lips against Credence’s hair, just above his ear. “And a satisfactory distraction.”

 

“Now” he continued, “is it a good time to ask what that was about?”

 

Credence sniffled into Graves’ shirt and gave a noncommittal shrug. 

 

The older man waited, this time actually patient. He had all the time in the world.

 

“I didn’t  _ notice _ ,” Credence finally croaked. “I wasn’t any better than anyone else. I noticed you were acting different, but I just wanted so badly, I didn’t--” he inhaled too deeply, triggering a coughing fit.

 

“Easy,” Percival soothed, rubbing Credence’s back in slow, sweeping motions with an open palm.

 

Credence shuddered, breathing as deeply as he dared. “You-- _ he _ said he needed me, and I let it cloud my judgement. I’m so sorry. It's no wonder you don't want me.” 

 

“Don't want you...to what?” Percival asked slowly. 

 

Credence shifted nervously, wiggling like a cat in a child’s arms.

 

“You know,” he said, lips brushing the buttons on Percival’s shirt. “ _ Want _ me.”

 

Oh. Yes, Percival did know. And he did want. He wanted so very many things.

 

“Credence,” he breathed, reverent, like an oath. “It has nothing to do with want.”

 

Credence did pull away that time, rolling to the opposite side of the loveseat to lean against the arm, indignant.

 

“You kissed me,” he accused.

 

“I did,” Percival agreed.

 

“And you said it was a mistake.”

 

“It was.”

 

“You already know that I--you know. Like you. That way.”

 

That amused smirk he wore so often returned to Percival’s face. “I am aware of that, yes.”

 

“Then what exactly makes it a mistake?” Credence demanded, bewildered and frustrated in turns. 

 

“I won't lead you on,” Percival said simply. “There's nowhere this could possibly go between us and I'm not going to risk hurting you for a fling.”

 

The rejection landed with all the tenderness of a belt smack to the kidneys. That was that, then. What Credence had thought was a friendship bordering on love reciprocated, was just lust and pity. Percival didn't see him as anything more than a body and a sob story.

 

“And here I was, thinking you felt something for me,” Credence said hollowly.

 

Graves pressed a world-weary hand to his forehead. “This isn't about what anyone feels. I’m trying to do what’s best for you.”

 

Credence’s upper lip curled in a parody of a snarl. He drew to his feet, shoulders pulled back like a threatened animal. 

 

“Why do you get to decide what’s best for me?” Credence bit out.

 

“Credence…” Graves sighed and dropped his face into his hands. 

 

Credence felt a brief stab of guilt. In that moment, Percival looked older than Credence had ever seen him. Never in a million lifetimes did Credence want to be the storm that finally tore him down.

 

“Look,” Credence said beseechingly. “There are a lot of reasons for you not to want to be with me. I’m uncultured and uneducated, my magic is unpredictable, and sometimes I turn into a monster when I’m angry. Any of those reasons would be adequate.”

 

Graves rubbed his face with his palms and glared at Credence through his fingers.

 

“Or maybe you just don’t want to. That would be a good reason, too. I would accept that,” Credence added. “But ‘wanting what’s best for me’? Come on. I’ve spent my entire life having other people tell me what I want and what I can do. Don’t be another one. Let me make my own choice.”

 

“And what do you choose?” Percival asked, voice low and rough.

 

Credence smiled, a wry twist of his mouth. “I fell in love with this grumpy wizard. I think I’d like to see how it goes with him.”

 

He fell to his knees before the older man and gripped his face, holding him still long enough to press a searing kiss against dry lips.

 

“I’m not grumpy,” Percival protested against Credence’s lips.

 

“Mm yes you are,” Credence said, licking his way into Percival’s mouth.

 

Graves pulled back slightly to show Credence his raised eyebrow of mock outrage.

 

Credence laughed. “Before I knew what magic was, I thought you were a disgruntled businessman.”

 

He then proceeded to kiss the horror from Percival’s face, leaving no room for doubt about whether either of them was wanted.

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta said I have to get off the drama train.
> 
> I have a few more loose ends to tie up, so I'm thinking one more chapter and then a short epilogue. Thank you all so much for sticking with me. I appreciate each and every one of you so very much!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally the whole truth comes out.
> 
> Chapter warnings: ~emotions~

If possible, Credence thrived even more in a relationship with Percival than he had solely under his guidance. Percival lavished affection on his love without any measure withheld, and Credence basked in it, coming alive under his touch. It wasn’t long before one bed became their bed and if anyone noticed, they certainly didn’t say anything. 

 

The days grew longer as winter gave way to spring. Credence honed his witchcraft with daily practice, gaining a quiet confidence that suited him well. He did miss the city, though, and judging by the wistful looks of longing given to his maps, Percival missed it, too.

 

Credence was used to dissatisfaction. Even the worst day in a magical hospital with the man he loved was heaven compared to anything he’d had in his life before. And he was happy: really, genuinely happy. The silly nagging concerns at the back of his mind could just stay there and rot. His life was looking up and he was going to enjoy it.

 

\---

 

“Hey, Perce?” Credence asked.

 

Percival hmmed inquiringly.

 

“Can you show me how to do this charm? I think I get it in theory but it isn’t working.” Credence held up his book, open to the spell in question.

 

Percival pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted at the page. 

 

“That one’s complicated. When you draw the spiral motion, rotate from your wrist and not your arm. You want the hilt’s turn to be wider than the tip’s,” he advised.

 

“Can you show me?” Credence asked, holding out the wand beseechingly. 

 

“Can it wait?” Percival asked in response.

 

Credence nodded and drew the wand back to his chest. He didn’t mean to be a nuisance.

 

“We will work on it,” Percival promised.

 

“Yeah,” Credence agreed softly, picking at the hem of his sweater sleeve.

 

The forlorn expression did not escape Percival’s notice.

 

“Is something bothering you?” he ventured.

 

“Nothing important,” Credence mumbled.  _ Only that I think you’re hiding something. _

 

“Are you sure?” Percival pressed.

 

“Yup,” Credence said.  _ I’m afraid you don’t trust me. But I don’t think that’s important to you. _

 

The thread of his hemline finally gave up, unraveling and fraying the fabric edge. He clasped the string between blunt fingertips and twirled it. As the thread spun, it curled in on itself, balling up in a messy tangle. It reminded him of the tendrils of his mind’s darkness.

 

Eyes fixed on the mangled thread, Percival drew his eyebrows together and sucked the inside of his cheek between his teeth.

 

“If I’ve done something to upset you,” he said slowly, “I would appreciate it if you would tell me.”

 

“You haven’t,” Credence assured him, with no trace of falsehood. It was only what he  _ hadn’t _ done that was troubling.

 

Percival removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Credence, sweetheart, you know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

 

“I know,” he said. “I could say the same to you.” 

 

Credence flinched. He hadn’t meant to say the second part out loud. But, out it was and all he could do was own it. 

 

Credence’s dark gaze pierced straight through Percival’s emotional barriers. 

 

The older man frowned. “What have I not told you?”

 

_ What you see in me. Why you think this can work between us. _

 

“Why are you still here? In the hospital I mean.”

 

A sort of heaviness settled over Percival, weighting his features and aging him in a way the silver in his hair never did. A wry smile graced his lips. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that.”

 

Credence tilted his head, a clear challenge to his partner’s claim of honesty. 

 

“My healers did not feel, given the current circumstances, that it would be advisable to allow me to go home on my own,” Percival said carefully, “given the known difficulty of wizards attempting to function in the magical world when they cannot perform magic.”

 

He held Credence’s gaze through the admission, facing whatever might come head-on as always.

 

“I don’t understand,” Credence frowned. “Why can’t you perform magic? Are you not allowed?”

 

Percival shook his head tersely. “Not that. I physically cannot do it.” Each word was sharp, plucked out like a quill.

 

“Since when?” Credence pried.

 

“Since my captivity.” Graves’ voice was ragged, like the words themselves were tearing him apart from the inside. “It may be a temporary side effect of something Grindelwald did, or it may be permanent.”

 

Credence gaped. All this time, all these months, and he’d had no idea. 

 

“You didn’t think tell me about it?”

 

“It never came up,” Percival said, scratching at his chin and staring at a point above Credence’s left shoulder.

 

“Could you have, maybe, brought it up anyway? Say, for example, ‘Would you like strawberry or grape jelly on your toast, and by the way I can’t do magic?’ I feel like that’s something that should have been mentioned!” Credence didn’t yell, but he flung his hands out palms-forward in a clear gesture of exasperation. He was on a roll now; there was no stopping his runaway tongue.

 

“I didn’t want your pity.”

 

Graves’ voice was soft now, weak in a way the man himself never had been.

 

All right, apparently there was one thing that could leave Credence at a loss for words.

 

Credence just stared at him before finally managing, “Why would I ever pity you?”

 

Graves shrugged one shoulder and raised his eyebrows.

 

“I’ve never been able to do magic. Never once in my life until I met you,” Credence bit out. “And you never thought less of me for it. Or at least, I hope you didn’t.”

 

Graves shook his head.

 

“You are the bravest, strongest man I've ever met. Pity never even crossed my mind.” Tears burned in Credence’s eyes, threatening to fall if he let his guard down. He swallowed hard and willed them away. “Your pride may cost you everything someday.”

 

“If I lose you, it will have,” Percival whispered.

 

The expression on Credence’s face was unreadable, but he threw himself into Percival’s arms, wrapping him up fiercely and burying his face in the join of neck and shoulder, which was clear enough.

 

“You’re a stupid man,” Credence said into Percival’s skin, voice muffled but sounding suspiciously wet.

 

Percival, glad his lover couldn’t see his own reddened eyes, voiced his agreement. He ran one hand up and down what he could reach of the bony back before him, keeping the other arm securely wrapped around the slender waist. 

 

“Not losing me,” Credence sniffed. His nose dragged a trail of snot down Graves’ shirt but he didn't care. “ ‘Re driving me crazy, though.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Percival murmured, nuzzling Credence’s hair. “I’m always saying that, aren’t I?”

 

“You’re forgiven. Don’t do it again.”

 

Percival laughed wetly and raised Credence’s head to face him, cupping his cheeks in his hands.

 

“The next time I lose my magic, you’ll be the first to know,” Graves promised, then kissed him firmly.

 

Credence kissed back, passionate and fervent, then suddenly pulled away and bolted toward the door.

 

“I have an idea,” he called back over his shoulder. 

 

“Credence!” Percival cried in confusion.

 

Credence grabbed the door frame just in time to use his momentum to spin himself back. 

 

“I'm getting your discharge papers.”

 

“Darling, I don't think-”

 

“You can't do magic,” Credence interrupted, “but I can. It couldn't be more perfect. I'll have someone to continue teaching me, and you'll have a magic-user around so they'll have to let you go home.”

 

Although he didn't attempt to dissuade the other man, Percival’s dubious expression gave away his doubts.

 

“I know you want to go home,” Credence said. “Let me do this for you.”

 

Percival raised a hand and sighed in concession, but there was nothing on his face except fondness.

 

Credence closed the distance between them again long enough to press one more kiss against his love's mouth before sprinting off again. 

 

With the kiss still tingling in his lips, Percival had to wonder if everything the boy touched would be filled with light the way his life had been.

 

 

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. This chapter really took some work, and I hope I did it justice. This is the last full chapter! A short (ish) epilogue will follow, but the storyline is mostly wrapped up now. 
> 
> I haven't decided much on the epilogue except the very end. I kind of want to crank it up to rated E, just for giggles. My beta doesn't do smut though so it would be less polished than usual. I'm not great at fluff but I could go that route. Opinions?


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fin.

Sometimes Credence felt like he and Percival existed out of time. Neither needed to work, although Credence had offered at first, not wanting to be a burden. Percival argued that no wizarding student worked while studying magic, and Credence should have the same freedom. Besides, his disability pay would cover them and then some.

 

Sometimes they traveled, using portkeys and the floo network to experience everything Credence had missed growing up among no-majs. Sometimes they stayed home, enjoying each other’s company and a break from outside pressures.

 

The apartment, for so long just Percival’s, gleamed with new life, and traces of its additional occupant were evident on every surface. Even without Credence’s creative touches, Percival secretly believed his mere presence breathed a life into the building that it had never seen before.

 

To both men’s great surprise, it was Percival who made the greatest strides in self-discovery. His entire life had focused for so long on his career that he had never bothered exploring any of his less productive interests. As it turned out, there were plenty of things that could occupy time without magic. 

 

One pastime he grew enormously fond of but would die before admitting, was bubble baths. Heavy on the bubble, water nearly boiling, and often accompanied by Credence, he still showered daily and used bathing solely for relaxation. Credence was more than happy to join, and often charmed the bubbles into animal shapes. It was good practice to see how long he could maintain the spell while distracted with kisses and caresses.

 

For his part, Credence found that cooking was much more rewarding when there were more than three ingredients to work with. Percival showed him magical shortcuts for things like chopping vegetables and cleaning up, but the majority he still did by hand. He refused to speed up things like simmering time, insisting it stunted the flavor. 

 

It was a simple life, but heaven knew Percival missed magic. He nearly ached with it some days. But he had the most incredible man ever born by his side, and he wouldn’t trade that for anything he had before. 

 

One morning, the pair sat at the breakfast table, picking at their usual fare of scrambled eggs and flour biscuits with jelly. Credence had, as usual, snagged the crossword puzzle from the morning paper. A pen was poised upright above 32-Down, ready to fill in the answer as soon as Credence thought of it. The self-writing spell had come from Tina, who was particularly clever with small time-saving charms.

 

“Do you think the eggs could use a bit more salt?” Credence asked, poking them with a fork.

 

“Perhaps a little,” Percival said without looking up from his newspaper. He held a hand out in the general direction of the condiment tray across the table out of habit, palm curled in a grasping gesture toward the salt.

 

The glass shaker rattled.

 

\---

  
THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it. It's been quite a ride, especially since I haven't written anything in over a year. I enjoyed writing this a lot and I hope you enjoyed reading it. This pairing has been amazing for my muse and I'm already working on my next story.
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta and best friend chaos_squirrel, who feeds my addiction and faithfully nags me to keep writing. Thank you also to every person who read, left kudos, commented and bookmarked. Your feedback means the world to me.
> 
> If you have questions or con crit, please don't be afraid to let me know! Of course, love is always welcome too :D I hang out here, or on tumblr as cleverlittlecookie.


End file.
